


title in resolve

by wokeboke



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Love Confessions, M/M, because they need it, emotion dump on the part of both of them, it seems like this is all I write because in reality it is all I write, some suggestive language/themes but not enough to warrant T rating I think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-11-02 08:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wokeboke/pseuds/wokeboke
Summary: The premise of a retainer and his lord's support conversation, concluded in a much different way compared to canon.Or, Wolt can't let his feelings get in the way of his duty, but they do anyways. Roy doesn't mind.





	title in resolve

“Sh-shit.”

“Lord Roy, language,” Wolt says automatically, keeping his eyes on the book he’s reading.

“No, I just—oh, gods,” Roy groans, and it sounds so painful that Wolt finally looks up. Roy still has his armor on from when he trooped in about ten seconds ago, exhausted, and is currently nursing each of his arms with the other arm somehow, looking pained out of his mind.

Wolt closes his book. “If this is about trying to beat Lot in an arm wrestle _again_—_”_

“No!” Roy tries to raise his hand in protest, but as soon as it gets higher than his shoulder, he cries out in pain again. “I think—Allen went a little too hard on me in training earlier.”

Wolt winces in sympathy; the last time he sparred with the fiery cavalier, he couldn’t bend his knees for three hours. “Do you want me to help you take off your armor? Then you could go get washed up and rest early,” he suggests.

“I’d love that,” Roy sighs, relief evident in his tired smile. “I can’t even move my arms, let alone undress myself.”

Wolt’s face burns at the wording, but he knows that’s what he’ll be doing to his lord: undressing him. Roy seems to find no problem in the action, humming contentedly as Wolt moves behind him to unclasp the breastplate over top Roy’s leather tunic.

It feels strangely domestic as Wolt moves on to his shoulder plating and greaves, setting each piece of armor aside for him to store away later, probably when Roy is off washing. Soon enough, the only piece left is his tunic, which only goes on and off one way: over the head.

“Arms up, Lord Roy,” Wolt directs, though he wishes he didn’t have to. “Just for a second while I pull your tunic off.”

Roy nods, understanding it’s the only way to get it off. He tries once, twice, three times to lift his arms, but fails, wilting in exhaustion by the end of the feeble show. “Ah.” He turns to Wolt with a sheepish smile. “Could you lift them for me?”

“Er, I don’t want to hurt you, Lord Roy,” Wolt says, frowning. “If I touch your arms—”

“It’s okay,” Roy assures him. “It might hurt now, but it’s either this or sleep in a stiff piece of armor, right?”

“As you wish, my lord.” Wolt dips his head, pretending he doesn’t see how Roy frowns back at the courtesy. “It might be better to sit down, then.”

They plop down on the mess of blankets that serves as their bedding while on the move, Roy sitting cross-legged with his arms hanging loosely at his side, hands touching the ground, and Wolt sitting on his heels behind him.

“Ready?” he asks. Roy nods.

_Here goes nothing, _he thinks. He grasps Roy’s right arm and pushes it up, slowly, gently. He can feel the muscle tense up, then relax. He pushes it up a little farther, and farther, and farther, until Roy’s elbow is pointed to the sky and he’s shaking with the exertion.

“Is this okay?” he checks. His lord hasn’t said anything yet, no grunts of pain, so he can only assume Roy’s holding out.

“Feels…good,” he groans, in a way that makes Wolt seriously doubt that it feels good, but what does he know? He does the same with the left arm until it’s shaking.

“Everything okay, Lord Roy?” he checks again. His plan of attack is to hook one forearm across both of Roy’s arms and hold them up as he uses his other hand to pull up the tunic.

“Stop…with the…‘Lord’,” Roy grounds out through gritted teeth, so yeah, everything’s okay. Wolt proceeds with his plan, carefully transferring the weight of Roy’s arms onto his left forearm. He tests it a couple times, moving his arm forwards and backwards, and it holds.

The next part of his plan is where things go awry.

He tugs at the leather with his free hand, but it’s not enough to pull it free. He tugs again, and Roy’s right arm slips off Wolt’s carefully crafted brace, swinging back down. In his haste to fix things, Wolt grabs Roy’s bicep in his right hand and unintentionally squeezes.

His lord cries out, too loud in the quiet of the night.

Wolt freezes in place, ears pricked with alarm. “Lord Roy, did I hurt you—?”

“Do that again.”

“Do—do _what_?”

Roy shuffles around on the blankets so that they’re facing each other and raises his right arm farther than he had before. “Could you squeeze it again? It felt really good when you did it the first time.”

Wolt tries not to shiver at the way Roy emphasizes the ‘really good’, but it still feeds into a feeling of mounting heat deep in his gut. “Like…a massage?” he asks slowly. He’s learned a few techniques from Lance specifically for use after training with his red cavalier-counterpart, and it’s a part of Wolt’s duties to aid his lord in any way possible. Then why does this sound like a not-so-great idea to him?

“Only if you’re willing to!” Roy amends quickly. “Either way, we should get this last piece off first, right?”

“‘Only if I’m willing to,’” Wolt murmurs, lifting up Roy’s arms again. “Lord Roy, you know I would do anything for you.”

To his surprise, Roy’s cheeks colour a little as he avoids Wolt’s gaze. “Except call me by my name,” his lord mutters, a little petulant.

The tent grows quiet, the only sounds the rustling of fabric and the nighttime ambience as Wolt methodically works the tunic over Roy’s head, working out a reply at the same time.

“It would be…improper,” he says eventually, setting the tunic on his lap. “It’s not what a good retainer would do.”

“I don’t _care_ what a good retainer would do!” Roy exclaims, grabbing fistfuls of blanket emphatically, then grimacing at the pain. “Wolt, you’re the best friend _and_ retainer I’ve ever had! For gods’ sake, I—” He seems to cut himself off, swallowing thickly, leaving Wolt to wonder what he was about to say. “I’ve known you since childhood. Please, nothing would make me happier than this.”

It’s not something new they’ve discussed—in fact, it seems as if it resurfaces every few days. And every time, Wolt insists on sticking to his self-enforced code of rules between nobility and retainer, despite his lord’s assurance of his disregard for such ‘stuffy’ titles.

Still, Wolt continues to shove ‘Lord’ in front of the name of his best friend—it felt awkward and wrong in the beginning of the war, but it comes out naturally now. He would be lying if he said he didn’t notice those subtle glances of regret Roy casts his way every so often, regret for a wall built between childhood friends and milk brothers, and lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t feel little pangs of longing every now and then for those times before the war, when he could shout Roy’s name and sling an arm around his neck without having to bear the weight of being retainer to the most important boy in Pherae.

But that’s not the whole story.

His hands, looking for something to do, attach themselves to the buttons of Roy’s lord’s jacket and start unfastening. “I…can’t, Lord Roy,” he says, lowering his gaze to Roy’s chest. “I can’t.”

Oh, but how he so desperately wants to—

“It’s out of place with you as my lord and me as your retainer.”

—say his name, scream it, whisper it, _moan_—no, some things he can’t allow himself to even _think_—

“It’s my job to set an example for others to follow.”

—and how he aches to touch, to comfort and care for and _provide_—

“If I don’t treat you with respect, how could anyone else?”

“Gods, Wolt.” Roy’s voice breaks somewhere within that one syllable, and Wolt’s heart with it. “I just…” He smiles, but it’s too small and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. “Do I really have to spell it out?”

“You can tell me, Lord Roy.” His own voice shakes, and the title feels like bile, thick and unfamiliar on his tongue as he spits it out. His fingers fumble on the last button.

“I…” Roy stares at the blankets between them, definitely avoiding eye contact. “I miss you.”

It hits Wolt like the flat of a training blade, the fact that his lord sounds dangerously close to defeat, and that despite the wrenching feeling in his chest, he has to be the one to strike the final blow.

“This war is more important than our relationship,” he says, regretting it as soon as the words leave his mouth. He watches, second by agonizing second, as Roy deflates, shoulders slumping and expression falling.

Wolt knows what he’s doing, and hates himself for it.

“_You’re_ important to me,” Roy murmurs, just when Wolt thinks he’s won, though there’s no winning in the game he’s playing.

“I shouldn’t be.” He sighs, ignoring the tug on his heart and putting up an air of finality that he hopes will make them leave the topic behind. “Do you still require my help working your arms?” He picks up the tunic on his lap, preparing to fold it up. “If not, I can start putting your armor away—”

“I don’t get it!” Roy’s hand shoots out and encircles his wrist, voice stronger than it was just a moment ago. “Do you hate me, Wolt? Is that why you won’t call me _just_ ‘Roy?’”

“No!” he gasps, stricken. “Never! I’ve told you—”

“And I’ve told you _I don’t care!_” Roy says fiercely. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, I don’t care about being respected, I…” He falters for a moment, expression softening as his grip on Wolt’s wrist relaxes and their eyes lock together. “There’s nothing stopping you, Wolt. I—I _know_ you want to, right? I can see it every time we talk about it, but you always—you always refuse. Why, Wolt? Why?”

“Because I…” His heart rises in his throat as his eyes dart around the tent, searching for a reason—an excuse, panicking. “I…can’t. Tell you.”

Something wet drips onto his tensed-up fist and it takes a moment for him to realize he’s crying, crying tears of spilled-over _feeling_ that he simply cannot carry and hold back anymore.

“Hey, Wolt, don’t cry…oh, Wolt,” Roy sighs fondly, but the affection laced in how Roy says his name makes Wolt cry harder, chest heaving and soft gasps escaping from his mouth, knowing that he’s about to ruin everything built up between them.

“Roy—” He chokes, screwing his eyes shut as Roy’s widen at the usage of his name—Wolt knows it may very well be the last time he’ll get to say it. “I’m in love with you.”

He involuntarily drops to a rasp by the end of the confession, breaking off into a pitiful hiccup. He turns away, tears tracking heat down his cheeks, body shivering and heart ready to burst in hot, dripping shame.

A hand cups his cheek and gently turns him back, touch softer than he deserves.

“Hey, look at me.”

And Wolt looks, through a wet and blurry filter. Roy is smiling, kindness in the shape of his mouth and tenderness in the way he takes Wolt in his arms and really hugs him, warm and full and everything Wolt has ever wanted from his lord.

Roy sniffs in his ear, and Wolt realizes his shoulder is wet as well. “Why didn’t you say so?”

They slip apart, easily, naturally, like fish in a stream. Wolt blinks and rubs at his eyes. “Lord Roy, I don’t understand.”

“Wolt,” Roy says, expression betraying nothing but pure honesty, “I love you too.”

Wolt’s heart fills with a different and unfamiliar feeling; hope, he thinks it is, that suddenly makes him want to hold on tight to and never let go of what his lord means to him.

“You,” he begins, not really sure about the emotion slowly forming in his chest, not really sure what he’s about to say, “can’t.”

He wants to shoot himself in the other foot. Anything, he could have answered with anything. But that?

Roy blinks once in surprise, then grins, reaching around to put a hand on the back of Wolt’s neck, drawing them close together so that their foreheads almost touch. Wolt shivers from the contact, fingers so usually gloved and out-of-reach now warm and raw against his skin.

“I already do,” he whispers, eyes dropping down from Wolt’s to his slightly parted mouth.

Wolt swallows down the needles in his throat. “I…”

The night sounds die away as the world disappears from view and the space between them closes, slowly, softly, the familiar comfort and acceptance that Wolt has longed for finally within his grasp, on his lips, in his arms, and the crickets’ song fades back in as he takes a shuddering breath, pulling away to gaze at his lord, flushed and looking equally as wrecked as Wolt feels.

It hadn’t been much more than a chaste kiss, a press of lips on lips, but their heavy breathing fills the tent with sounds of a suggestive sort, accompanied, once again, by the subdued innocence of the night.

Wolt can’t think, won’t think, can only _feel_, but right now, even his senses aren’t doing so well.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Roy admits, letting the confession hang in the still air between them, and hang in the air it does indeed, until Wolt comes to his senses and grabs it.

“How…how much is ‘a while’?” Wolt says, testing the emotional ground with a metaphorical stick.

“Long enough,” Roy answers, falling backwards then turning over so that he’s lying down on his stomach, patting the space next to him. Wolt follows suit, lying on his back, staring at the curved ceiling of their tent, watching the shadow of a fly dance its way across the beige expanse.

The night grows deeper. Neither speaks, but the silence is comfortable. Roy turns to curl into Wolt’s side, draping Wolt’s arm around him, which he finds himself letting happen without pause. Something roars up inside him, not fierce, but warm, and just as intense.

“Roy…” Wolt finally breaks the silence, testing the name of his lord, unfettered, on his tongue. It sends another shiver down his spine, a title, or lack thereof, that is fondly reminiscent of younger days.

Fiery hair brushes against his chin as Roy moves his head from its resting place on Wolt’s chest. “I’m glad we finally reached a compromise on the whole ‘title’ thing.”

“With all due respect, it wasn’t much of a compromise,” Wolt says, stopping himself from adding _my lord_ onto the end of it.

“Ah…” Roy chuckles at that, then lapses back into relative quiet, sighing contentedly. “Was that okay?”

“Was it…” Funny, how just a moment ago, Wolt thought he’d never even be allowed in the same _tent_ as his lord anymore, and now…

“Yeah, that was…” He catches himself about to stumble on his words and clears his throat. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Roy echoes his answer, and Wolt can hear the smile in his voice.

Like a blanket, the quiet settles down on them and Wolt feels his eyelids start to droop. His mind burns with unasked questions, like what happens after, but as his lord’s breathing evens out, he lets go of caring for now and drifts off to sleep.

A tiring morning of question and confusion might await them, but at least they’ll face it together.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. in general I feel like a lot of fe6's supports left a lot to be desired so this is just me expounding probably too much on roy and wolt's. hope you enjoyed!


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